Musicality
by poetic licence
Summary: The sequel to Monochrome & Misdemeanour - where someone has realised and has silently sworn to keep the lovers secret, watching on from afar. Harry/Draco


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Musicality

The students returned to the wall, and some of would say safety, of Hogwarts in droves. They scattered into the platform like dandelion seeds on a breath, a puff that was felt in some small rational way, by us all. The cold in the air froze our breath on our lips, and we tumbled into the carriages, glad to be retreating from the cold January air. 

The train swayed along the tracks with a comforting rattle and whirl; I'd always loved travelling by rail. While you sat there, warm and comfortable, reading over a due assignment; playing exploding snap and singeing your eyebrows; stuffing yourself silly with Chocolate Frogs and Fizzing Wizzbees. Being part Muggle, I could see the attraction of wizarding candy and tricks: my Muggle friends could never wrap their mind around my wizarding chess set I'd received from my Grandfather the year before. 

The scenery slid comfortably along outside my window, the trees stripped off the leaves, the countryside having kicked the clothes off in favour of a white Christmas. I contemplated my return to the castle with some apprehension. 

I wondered how _they'd_ coped with so few students there, having what must have felt like the run of the school; and apart from the Weasley's and a couple of library-obsessed Ravenclaws, nothing stood in their way…to each other. 

Wait. You didn't know I knew, did you? 

Surprise, surprise…neither do they! Oh yes, they think they're oh-so-careful - and they are careful, blindingly so…but I could tell. 

Especially when one of your dorm mates keeps sneaking back in at ungodly hours, stinking of sex and unbearably happy for the next few days. Sure, he may angst a lot under the surface, but he's so good with faces, with masks that put people outside of who he is, what he's really thinking. 

I'm surprised that no one else had figured it out yet - the sly looks, the brush of skin as they shove each other in the corridor, pretending to fight. He'd swerve his punch, they'd spit and swear, give each other black eyes and bruises; and later, they would meet, kiss each others knowingly inflicted wounds that was all part of their façade. 

It's like a dance, and only they can hear the tune in the background; the Aria of the Ages folding her sweet arms around them and binding them in a way that only the most talented could ever feel. They were her masterpiece. She was drunk on wine and passion, knotted silk and lust. When she took their canvases and lashed them together in a tangled web of youth and hormones. 

__

It must have been a hell of a risk, I ponder as we pull in to our destination. 

And suddenly, we're back, feeling like we'd never been away. Hogwarts halls were filled with confusion, cats under feet; trunks dumped unceremoniously in the way; owls swooping up to the Owlery; for Front Entrance filled with snow-packed footprints and unbridled laughter that came from being apart for one hour too long. I saw his 'other half' hovering around the edges: he seemed melancholy, trying his hardest to seem indifferent, but he was an open book if you knew what you were looking for. 

The twists and turns of the human heart could be compared to a roller-coaster, all dips and twists, half loops and steep drops; dumping your stomach in your shoes, heart in your mouth, and your spleen located somewhere in your left shoulder. 

Did I tell you that I heard his 'other half' slip into our dorm room several nights later? 

He moved like his feet were made of silk, and even if I could see him through the thick velvet-night caving in on us, I wouldn't have been able to miss the sound of your sheets being pulled back. You must have know the dangers, both of you; you must have realised right from the beginning it was a hopeless situation, that at any time you could have been caught, even with me backstage, ready with carefully placed silencing spells, helping in the only way I knew how. Simply by never acknowledging that I had first suspected, and then known for sure at some vague point. 

Some point where fiction becomes fact; where suspicions become affirmation; where the line between love and hate blurs out and what resulted were you two, crossed hearts and stolen midnights. 

You found out that I knew a week later; you had both overslept, curled together in your bed, one completing the other with sheer familiarity. I stuck my head through the curtains and woke you both quietly, my eyes already filled with acceptance: you realised quickly that I knew, and had known for some time. 

He blushed and stammered, gathering his dressing gown around him as you pressed your arms around him and kissed him - a sweet innocent kiss, tender and dazzling. He slipped away past me, blushing gently, as I stood there for a moment and congratulated you. 

You flushed, feeling yourself unworthy perhaps. 

"Thanks," you whispered, settling back into your pillows luxuriously and drinking in the scent of him. "Thanks, Seamus."

- finished -


End file.
